Reservations

I’d decided to drive the family to Providence to see my old college advisor and his wife. I hadn’t laid eyes on them in more than a quarter century, and they’d never met Alex. They knew about him from my books, and I remembered them as terribly sweet and supportive people, but they’d never met him and for brunch all I knew was that we were going to be eating in some place nice enough to need reservations.

My advisor and his wife escorted us to a dining room of sparkling glasses and white tablecloths and napkins. Therein were our reservations at a round table; I quickly and silently calculated that we could get the back of Alex’s chair no closer to the wall than about four feet.

“I’ve seated Alex between you and me,” I said to Jill when she walked in.

We had our tools: one of our hosts had supplied a box of fancy European cookies, I grabbed a handful of Saltines off the soup tray, and we had a small box of backup, good ol’ American Chips Ahoy. Plus we promised Alex to order bacon so he’d stay in his seat and leave the light switches of the dining room alone.

Brunching with us was a retired researcher of one of New England’s major autism-research centers. He watched me try to make sure Alex remained with us at the dining table (which Alex largely did through a grown-up meal: pretty impressive…).  “You seem to have developed a sixth sense about him,” the researcher said.

Except when Alex bolted into the other part of the dining room and got to the light switches. Jill brought him back. The researcher — who’s read and I think liked my stories about Alex — noticed that Alex had built toward that bolt, first leaning away from me then leaning away from Jill, then scooting. It helps to have another set of eyes on Alex.

And arms, as my old advisor reached out gently a few moments later and snagged Alex as he made another attempt toward the switches near meal’s end. More fool Alex: As Alex’s empty bacon plate was cleared, our hosts soon had the waiter bring him a dish of devastating chocolate-chunk cookies. That took care of him for the rest of the meal. When he was done, Alex wiped his mouth and fingers on a real cloth napkin.

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An illustrated PDF about teaching table manners to a young boy with autism.

Image: SXC.HU, Tinneketin